Rituals for the Lost
by 1848EllisBell
Summary: 7x01 Filler. "She lit a candle that first night, placed it in an ancient brass candlestick Martha had found for her, sat it on the small ledge beneath their bedroom window, and gazed out past the flickering light into the night beyond. The custom, older than the holder itself, offered comfort, just enough to allow her a little hope." (or: Kate freaks out at the janitor)


**7x01 Filler. **

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><p><strong>Rituals for the Lost. <strong>

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><p>She lit a candle that first night, placed it in an ancient brass candlestick Martha had found for her, sat it on the small ledge beneath their bedroom window, and gazed out past the flickering light into the night beyond. The custom, older than the holder itself, offered comfort, just enough to allow her a little hope. She sat there for hours, eyes trained out that window, cell phone clasped tight in her hand, and the candle burned long into the night, a warm beacon of hope, guiding him home.<p>

Before she left the loft in the morning, she filled a bag with clothes, her own, and his, placed the candlestick on top, and zipped it closed. She kissed the tips of her fingers, brushed the kiss across his pillow, and walked away.

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><p>His chair remained untouched, positioned as it would have been on any normal day: pulled in close to her desk, and angled just right. The murderboard held his face, and she'd placed a smaller photo in a frame and sat it on her desk. Whether his eyes met hers from a glossy picture, or his presence filled the empty chair beside her, she still felt him with her. She knew he was alive.<p>

Day after day, she went to work, sat at her desk, and focused her eyes on the photo on the board, and willed him to just hang on. She dropped her gaze to his framed face, and promised she would find him. The chair drew her attention, and with a gentle touch she positioned it as it should be, again, but her mind screamed out to whomever was moving it to stop.

_Don't touch Castle's chair._

_Don't test me._

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><p>The FBI left. Special Agent Connors strode out of the Twelfth, leaving her standing in front of the closed elevator, her vehemence still tingling on her lips. She turned to Gates, but her captain could only shake her head in futility. Leads had dried up. She was on her own now.<p>

Sweeping a folder off her desk, she left without another word. A ritual she thought she had left in her past was set to begin again.

Alone in her cold apartment, she clicked the lighter, lit the wick, placed the candle in the window of her office, and with a shaking hand she opened the long-closed shutters.

Newspaper clippings, snipped with care, began to fill the spaces, cover the frosted glass. Another photo of him, post-it notes with what few clues they had, it all found itself stuck to the glass, spreading out to the wooden frames as more time passed.

Weeks became a month, and when hope stuck a stubborn foot in the ground and refused to return to her side, she opened her closet, and the faint scent of him surrounded her. She curled a fist around his shirt now hanging there, and clung to him - and she felt hope beside her once more.

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><p>Seven weeks without him, and one ritual had to cease. She couldn't waste time anymore, couldn't spend all those valuable minutes on something so irrelevant. Her fingers replaced a brush, if only to loosen the knots, until the length just irritated her. How much of her time had it demanded when he was still out there and, God, alive? Or that other word she couldn't even voice.<p>

She didn't book an appointment, just walked in as she passed a salon, and hoped. Because if they couldn't fit her in her idle hands might deal with it after another clipping from the newspaper was pressed to a shutter.

She walked out with a shoulder-length cut, feeling strangely lighter.

Almost like it was one less thing to worry about now.

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><p>Two months to the day, she stayed behind once everyone had left, and stared at the murderboard, long into the night, whispering promises to the photo, promises she didn't think she could keep. Her fingers raked through her short, mussed hair, down because even tying it back would have required too much of her time that morning. She kept a light on near a window, in place of the candle she wouldn't burn tonight, never losing faith in its ability to guide him back to them.<p>

She took no notice of the night janitor as he approached, too lost in the silent desperation for something on that board to just click into place, and reveal his whereabouts to her.

She was oblivious to the world around her, until she felt a bump against her desk, heard the squeal of chair legs being moved across the floor. Not far, just an inch, but enough to break her.

Her hand was on her piece before she was even aware of it, the threatening words of bodily harm out of her mouth before she could stop them. Her shaking fingers gripped her gun, still somehow in its holster, her faltering voice repeated the words over and over, and the only thing that kept her in her own chair was the knowledge that if she stood she might pull her gun, aim it at the janitor, and follow through with what she was suggesting.

His hands left the chair, and he backed away, never turning from her as a string of apologies left his lips in a calming manner.

The tears fell as soon as she was alone again. Her quivering hand slid off the gun, and she choked back a sob at what she had almost done. As soon as her legs obeyed, she stood, lovingly placed his chair back where it had been moved from, took herself over to the window, her body bathed in the glow from the soft light above, and pressed the tips of her fingers to the glass.

"Come home to us," she murmured to the darkened alley below. A figure moved through the night, striding between the buildings towards the busy street. And, for just a moment, she held her breath, and studied the shadowy man until her head throbbed from the strain – until optimism disappeared around a corner with the stranger.

The sun would rise soon, a new day would begin, and her rituals would coax hope back.

But for how long?

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><p><strong>End.<strong>


End file.
